


The story is the Back Bone of his Childhood and it changes.

by onewithroses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Childhood, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:04:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onewithroses/pseuds/onewithroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your father is named Orion—after the hunter who would kill every animal on the planet.” Regulus never quite believed this but had learned, long ago, not to ask questions about how <i>Father</i> and <i>Orion</i> could ever be the same. Regulus thought of hunters as loud, then, and didn’t know of the patience and quiet cruelty that bookend the loud and boisterous trophy hunter. He learned that later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The story is the Back Bone of his Childhood and it changes.

Regulus doesn’t remember when he heard the story first. It’s one of the things that serves as a back bone to his childhood—omnipresent and continual. It must have been said over his cradle because by the time he’s eight and his brother’s at Hogwarts, he mouths the words his mother says as they sit side by side on one of the somewhat frayed couches upstairs.

“Your father is named Orion—after the hunter who would kill every animal on the planet.” Regulus never quite believed this but had learned, long ago, not to ask questions about how _Father_ and _Orion_  could ever be the same. Regulus thought of hunters as loud, then, and didn’t know of the patience and quiet cruelty that bookend the loud and boisterous trophy hunter. He learned that later.

Her fingers carded through his hair, curling and fisting handfuls at a time. “Sirius is his _dog_.” _That_ had changed and Regulus twisted, fingers on the couch cover, until his hair pulled and he stopped. Before, it was _Sirius is the brightest—when he grows old enough he’ll lead you when its dark_. Now she continues into Homer—though Regulus didn’t recognize it at the time. “Sirius rises late in the dark, liquid sky. On summer nights, star of stars, Orion’s Dog they call it, brightest Of all, but an evil portent, bringing heat And fevers to suffering humanity.”

And it sounds wrong enough for Regulus to open his mouth to protest. Sirius is _eleven_. Sirius is eleven and he might be a little loud, and he might have gone and ruined things by being in _Gryffindor_ —but Andromeda was in Hufflepuff and everything was fine. Just fine. It was too early for the story to change. _He didn’t want it to change_. “And you,” she said, smoothing down his hair again. “You are the brightest star in the constellation Leo. You are my little prince. Our little King.”

Before the proclamation had made him smile, pleased. Now Regulus pursed his lips and looked away. He felt inexplicably smothered.

Later. Untold days, or months, when he was alone in the library—kicking his feet from the armchair he had slouched in— he found another book on stars. The words had been too big for him, mostly, and he didn’t understand most of what it said. But he did see _Regulus: Qalb al-Asad, from the Arabic قلب الأسد, meaning ‘the heart of the lion’_ and he might not have known what _Qalb al-Asad_ was supposed to sound like or how to form his mouth over _قلب الأسد_ but he did know that it was saying _Regulus: the heart of the lion_.

The other meaning dogged him from home when he turned eleven. On the train to Hogwarts he slumped in the train car and watched Sirius with hooded eyes. _Mother’s named us wrong_ , he thought, because if anyone had the heart of a lion it was Sirius and if anyone was a dog who took direction it was Regulus.

He could never belong anywhere but Slytherin.

Regulus kept Astronomy. Sixth year and everyone else in his house abandoned it for something more exciting but he liked tracing the star charts. He liked learning the stories—even if he was never quite all that good at spitting them out when asked. Sirius had been gone for three years by then and when Regulus star gazes he rubs his forearm thinking of the loyalties he might be making. When he can’t stop, he counts the stories he has added to his mothers’.

_Your Father is the Hunter, you are the Little Prince_. She says every now and then. Sirius has been gone from the story so long it seems stupid to  feel bereft every time Sirius’ part isn’t mentioned—but he does anyway. Sometimes, childishly, he barely keeps himself from biting out: _That’s not how the story goes_.

But Sirius is gone so Regulus looks to his star instead. When the last of the summer heat cuts the air he looks at it and remembers that in Sanskrit it is known as Mrgavyadha “deer hunter”, or Lubdhaka “hunter”. If he thinks of Sirius as a hunter he can see the threads of their father in him. Sirius might have the childish bravidio of a trophy hunter—but didn’t he also hold an insidious quiet cruelty?

In the bitter winter, when he stands on the tower feeling the cold bite of it through his cloak, he thinks of how the Scandinavians called the star Lokabrenna:  _the burning done by Loki_.

That, of course, is the one Regulus thinks Sirius own if he knew it. It was more his sort of meaning than ‘ _bright one_ ’ or ‘ _dog_ ’.

He finds the American stories last—and puts them out of his mind as quickly as he learns them. There, Sirius was paired with Antares. Never with Regulus. The Cherokee calls them the dog-star guardians and they stay at either end of the Path of Souls. This holds no meaning to Regulus until much later and then it simply reminds him of the very first story. _He’ll lead you when its dark_ his mother promised—and she was always right when she promised. 

Regulus rarely looked at his own name and the meaning his star holds. Lion heart and Little King seemed far too divorced from reality. He is neither of those things. He pulls those notes only when he feels most alone. Then, in the dark, he can trace the words he’s written and know, _I am not alone_ —because those who are alone have no history.

And he has had history sewn into his bones and rooted into him.

Sometimes he holds so tightly to those words he can’t see anything else because he is a _Black_  above all else. He is a Black and he might as well be a prince and better than everybody. Some days, those stories are all he can hold onto.

Even if he has always known better than anyone that they were nothing but lies.


End file.
